


Sweet Tooth

by thimble



Series: SASO 2017 [17]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 02:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12266727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: Himuro's made a habit of getting under Atsushi's skin, much more than Atsushi would've liked or allowed, except these days he's also made a habit of getting into Atsushi's pants, and who's Atsushi to say no to that?[murahimu AU drabble dump for saso fills.01: the one with the pregame blowjobs02: the one with the podfic03: the one with the lycanthropy04: the one where they're homunculi05: the one where they're in a band06: the one where himuro leaves07: the one with the breakup]





	1. the one with the pregame blowjobs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [this](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10926610#cmt10926610) prompt.

People can believe the opposite all they want— _if_  word got out about it, the chances of which are low but Atsushi's not about to underestimate the rumor mill—but that won't change the fact that it was Himuro's idea, not his.   
  
He's hardly done anything to change his reputation of being a lazy, greedy, spoiled brat (and to be fair, he's surrounded by people who indulge him, especially a certain hotblooded captain) but he hardly cares about that stuff anyway. It means people write him off and leave him alone, unless their name was Himuro Tatsuya.   
  
He's made a habit of getting under Atsushi's skin, much more than Atsushi would've liked or allowed, except these days he's also made a habit of getting into Atsushi's  _pants_ , and who's Atsushi to say no to that?  
  
So, okay, maybe Atsushi's long given up about not giving into Himuro's temptations—the jersey lifted up for the dual purpose of wiping the sweat on his face and exposing his firm abdomen, the lingering and purposeful way he bends over to pick up a ball with his ass sticking up in the air, the fingers stroking Atsushi's ankle when he offers, ever so graciously, to tie Atsushi's unlaced shoelaces—and maybe even starts to initiate things himself. It's not his  _fault_  Himuro looks the way he does, almost as enticing as the aisle of a newly discovered candy store, and that's saying something. Also helps that he lets Atsushi slip sweets into his mouth for him to suck on before they make out, making him sweeter than any person has a right to be.  
  
It doesn't take long for things to escalate past the realm of innocent: dry humping under the sheets in Atsushi's room as snack wrappers crinkled around them, copping a feel of Himuro's ass in the library as Himuro pretends to look for a book, and, once, as a testament to Himuro's foreign shamelessness and Atsushi's profound indifference, a handjob inside the confessional booth of the school's chapel, God have mercy on their souls.   
  
That said, what really throws things into gear is that one time they couldn't keep their hands off each other before practice, with coach running late and the team already propelled out of the locker room by the force of Atsushi's glare. Himuro has him with his back to the wall as he ruts against his thigh, and Atsushi thinks that's the end game for today until one or both of them comes, but then Himuro somehow frees himself from Atsushi's tight grasp and drops down, taking the waistband of Atsushi's shorts along with him.   
  
It's not the first time Himuro's given him head, but it  _is_  the first time he's done it somewhere with proper lighting, where Atsushi can see the exact way his lashes fall upon his cheeks or the way his lips are stretched by Atsushi's dick, so pretty it's obscene.   
  
That day, Atsushi demolishes everyone in practice even more than usual, and the spark of something devious in Himuro's visible eye should've said it all.  
  
The next day, he sets his plan into motion, and Atsushi's chance of surviving the ordeal promptly plunges to zero.  
  
Which brings them to the present moment: the first day of Winter Cup qualifiers, with the rest of the team doing warm-ups while Himuro and Atsushi go about their usual business, the former with his mouth full of cock and the latter trying his very best not to alert the outside world about the proceedings with an errant groan.   
  
It's difficult, though, a task even more herculean than going up against Nash Gold Jr. back in the summer, all because Himuro's on his knees and Atsushi's got his fingers twisted in his bangs, giving him a fantastic view of Himuro's eyes, hazy with desire, and of his lips, wrapped around Atsushi's dick like they were made for it.  
  
("Look at this, Atsushi," says Himuro after a few days of his experiment, pointing at a video of them in a practice game. Atsushi rarely gave official matches the time of day, much less a scrimmage against a weaker team, but he humors Himuro, to his detriment. Himuro smiles as he taps at the screen. "This is how you perform when we, shall we say, have fun in the locker room beforehand."  
  
"So?" asks Atsushi, eyes narrowing as he sees the bits and pieces of Himuro's grand idea falls into place but still wanting to feign obliviousness.  
  
"So," says Himuro, tugging Atsushi down by his hair to whisper it against his lips, "how does victory sex after Winter Cup finals sound?"  
  
Atsushi answers by sticking his tongue in Himuro's mouth, drowning out the laughter that follows.)  
  
When he comes, Himuro swallows it down, pulling off Atsushi's cock all slow and deliberate like it's a lollipop and he's savoring the taste. He gives the tip of it a kiss before he stands, tugging up Atsushi's shorts for him.   
  
"Are you ready?" he says, his fringe and composure falling back into place. Atsushi gives the question more thought than he usually would as the high dissipates, clearing his mind of distractions but setting his pulse into overdrive. He gives his usual reply, though in his gut sits a different kind of hunger.   
  
"Mhmm."


	2. the one with the podfic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [this](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10562322#cmt10562322) prompt.

In Atsushi's point of view, sweets are paramount, and everything else secondary. Normally, nothing would be able to distract him on his daily candy run, debating the merits of trying out the new chili pepper chocolate versus sticking to the less adventurous fare. Normally, the prospect of discovering something new wins out, but he's hesitant about potentially damaging his taste buds. What's a culinary student to do if he can't try out his own food?  
  
Normally, nothing can permeate the zone he subconsciously builds around himself, but it's not every day that he hears a familiar voice coming from the overhead speakers of the candy shop.   
  
All thoughts of chocolate bars and gummy worms take a merry exit out of his mind, and all he can say is a flat and resounding, "what."  
  


* * *

  
  
It's not something he thought he'd ever do, and definitely not something anyone thought he'd ever do. Boredom and curiosity after watching too many cartoons—the only background noise he tolerates while baking—had led to him scouting forums and online archives, and not long after, getting a little  _too_ into it. Call it a hobby, call it a sexual awakening.   
  
Turns out baking isn't the only thing he's got a knack for.   
  
Some (most) of the comments he receives are annoying, demanding the next chapter or telling him to write more. He would've stopped long ago, except.  
  
There's a certain person... a certain  _voice_  that he wants to keep hearing, even if it's weird to hear his words said aloud. Every time he posts something new, a notification shows up in his email in less than a week, that voice acting out his scenes like a one-man play.   
  
It's still annoying, but not in the usual way. Not like he feels like crushing whoever it is.  
  
Annoying, in a way addictions are annoying, making him want things even if they're more trouble than they're worth.  
  


* * *

  
  
Now, that same voice surrounds him, silky as Belgian chocolate. The shopkeeper doesn't seem fazed by his question (all too accustomed to Atsushi's blunt disposition), answering it with a little too fondness in her tone.  
  
"I know we don't usually listen to the radio here, Acchan, but we're making an exception for him! He sounds like a movie star, doesn't he? We're betting he looks like one too."   
  
"Who?" asks Atsushi, ever so eloquent.   
  
"Himuro-kun, from Mirage FM! He's a returnee, so he always has something to interesting to say about the American songs. Not to mention his  _voice._ "  
  
"Hmm," hums Atsushi, noncommittal, hoping it doesn't sound too much like agreement. "I'll take these." He puts his choices on the counter, partly to stop Kaede-chin from gushing, and partly to determine whether his instincts are right.  
  
Then, "are you ready for this?" says Himuro to build up hype for a track, and it's final.  
  
Atsushi's used that exact phrase in one of his dialogues before.  
  


* * *

  
  
"You," says Atsushi into his cell phone a few days later, delivery as flat as ever, uncaring that all of Tokyo can hear him.   
  
"Me?" says Himuro, laughing his scripted radio-personality laugh. "That's certainly an interesting way of saying hello, caller number nine. Who do you want to give a shout out to today?"  
  
"I already told you," says Atsushi, audibly irritated now. "You. You're that guy."  
  
"I'm sorry?" says Himuro, still pleasant, but there's the slightest trace of confusion in his tone. "Have we met?"  
  
"No. But you're the one who's been reading all my stories..."  
  
"Do you have anyone else to greet, number nine, because we're running out of—"  
  
"...and recording them. I know it's you."   
  
"Aaand that's all the time we have! It was good to have you on the show!"   
  
The call's abruptly dropped, and Atsushi can do nothing but frown at his phone. But before he can think of throwing it against the wall in frustration, it starts to ring, with an unfamiliar number on the screen. He picks up, wary.   
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hi. Were you caller number nine?"   
  
This is a surprise. Atsushi's on edge, but he's interested to see where this goes. "Yeah, and you're Muro-chin."  
  
"Muro-ch— okay, listen. I'm sorry for hanging up, but I couldn't just let you reveal my... reading preferences on air. A guy's got to have secrets. Do you understand?"  
  
"Uh-huh." Atsushi unwraps a lollipop one-handed and pops it into his mouth, sucking hard like he does when he's upset. "You didn't really like my stories."  
  
"No! I... I love your stories. I just didn't..." Atsushi hears him sigh at the other end of the line. "I feel really bad about it, actually. Can I make it up to you? Is there a song you want to request?"  
  
"Buy me candy."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Buy me candy."  
  
There's that laughter again, though this time it's a lot more genuine. "All right, all right. I'll keep in touch. Candy it is." A pause, then, "what's your name?"  
  
"Murasakibara Atsushi."  
  
"Atsushi. I like that."  
  
Atsushi likes it, too, the sound of his name in that voice, but this conversation's getting a bit embarrassing. "Keep your promise. Bye, Muro-chin."  
  
This time, he's the first to hang up, lollipop cracked between his teeth and phone pressed against his thudding heart. He thinks of that hearing that voice in person, imagines it whispering right against his ear, and scowls.  
  
What a  _pain._


	3. the one with the lycanthropy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [this](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21931.html?thread=11439531#cmt11439531) prompt.

Tons of stuff should've given it away — stuff his subconscious had been ignoring because it's a stupid conclusion, point blank, and the brain tends to do that when things don't add up — but the one that sticks, and clicks, is this:   
  
Muro-chin doesn't get cold.  
  
Sure, it certainly looks like he does; he's made it clear that the creation and maintenance of illusions are his thing. He makes a lot of observations about the weather based on how many inches of snow had plied on during the night. He forgoes his usual soft drink when the team opts for coffee or hot chocolate from a vending machine. He carefully, almost calculatedly layers on the acceptable amount of clothes to give the impression of being warm. Atsushi caught him without a coat once on what was reportedly one of the coldest days of the year, not even with his signature flimsy (but stylish) scarf as the rest of them huddled like oversized dumplings. Muro-chin's already creamy skin turned a shade paler as he asked to exchange Atsushi's scarf for a box of pocky; normally Atsushi would've done it for free, because he's not that heartless, but that time he did it for two. The suspicious behavior was getting on his nerves.   
  
 _'Ah, I'm so forgetful. You saved me today, Atsushi.'_ Did Muro-chin really think anyone would buy that if he said it with those eyes, that silky, inviting voice? It might've worked on people in his class, girls and boys alike, maybe even on Masako-chin, but not on Atsushi.   
  
Especially since he has this annoying habit of pointing out how cute Atsushi is with his giant earmuffs and pink, sniffly nose.  
  
There are other things too, little things that no one who didn't spend nearly every waking hour of their free time with him would've noticed, but, unluckily for Muro-chin, Atsushi doesn't qualify.   
  
Because for a guy who bribes Atsushi into eating his carrots, he sure gets away with ignoring all of his vegetables; his meat intake might even rival Kagami's, except he's a lot more discreet about ordering his burgers. Then there's all the fur all over his bed when none of them were allowed to have pets in the dorms. Or the fact that his clothes were bleach-white, as if overcompensating for some telltales stains.  
  
It's just that nobody ever notices, and Atsushi wouldn't have either, except—he doesn't get cold.   
  
No, that's not right. It's not as accurate without the emphasis.  
  
He doesn't get cold  _around Atsushi._  
  
Not when he leans into him in chapel service, pretending to have fallen asleep, and not when Atsushi drapes his arms across his shoulders like a lazier breed of sloth. People tend to steer clear of Atsushi not just because of his glares, but because of the general aura he gives off, which is aided by the whole undead chill that runs through his veins.   
  
He decides to test his hypothesis one day by taking one of his characteristic drapes a step farther. As Muro-chin is chatting with one of his classmates, Atsushi melts all over him, hair no doubt tickling Muro-chin's cheek, nose pressed to the curve where Muro-chin's neck met his shoulder.   
  
The classmate pays them no mind, having grown used to their antics. It's only when he's left that Muro-chin suddenly stiffens under Atsushi's touch, attuned to the depth of his inhales.  
  
"So you've noticed," says Muro-chin, voice hushed and mildly, if warily, pleasant. "What gave me away?"  
  
"Everything," lies Atsushi, taking another deep breath of that unmistakable smell. "You stink."  
  
"You wound me." Muro-chin laughs, soft, and makes no move to pry Atsushi off him. If anyone were to look at them, it would seem like they were just having a private conversation. "It's unbearable to be around you, but you don't hear me complaining."  
  
"Mmhmm, because I help you win at basketball."   
  
"True," says Muro-chin, finally turning around. He pushes some of Atsushi's hair out of his eyes, tightens Atsushi's tie and generally fusses, as he usually does. Atsushi takes this a sign that nothing will change between them, for the most part.  
  
"You, on the other hand, are quite subtle. The food? The pulse?"   
  
A corner of Atsushi's mouth quirks up. "You can't believe all the stories you hear, Muro-chin. And if you try to dump holy water on me, I'll crush you."  
  
Muro-chin laughs again, one of his hands drifting atop the left side of his chest, feeling the heartbeat where there shouldn't be. He steps an inch closer into Atsushi's space, as if flaunting the fact that he can withstand Atsushi's cold.  
  
"Fair enough."


	4. the one where they're homunculi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [this](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11748073#cmt11748073) prompt.
> 
> a blatant fma au, ayyy.

i.  
  
Gluttony wakes up and immediately feels two things, though he supposes that they can be one and the same.   
  
First, he feels the urge to fulfill his purpose: to embody the vice that is assigned to him, and to make Father proud.  
  
And second? He feels the hunger, belly and bone-deep, residing in the recesses of his marrow. He's not human, this he knows rationally, but vices don't make for rational creatures and he thinks that if he doesn't eat, he might die.   
  
Homunculus may subsist on philosopher's stones, but philosopher's stones taste like nothing at all, and that just won't do.

 

 

  
  
ii.   
  
He doesn't think he was really created to feel more than those two initial things, but all creations have a tendency to rebel against their creators, even just a little bit. Father allows it, since it doesn't seem like it would get in the way of what he needs to do. Maybe it even helps his cause; Gluttony can't be sure, and he has long stopped trying to parse the machinations of Father's mind.   
  
What he can be sure of is that what he feels for Lust isn't a standard homunculus emotion, but he has his reasons.  
  
Lust has his way of getting what he wants, after all, and Gluttony's affections seem to fit neatly into his plan. There's nothing too grandiose there, nothing that would upset Father's design, but there's a selfishness in Lust that Gluttony sees right through.   
  
That's all right, though; they can be selfish together.

 

 

  
  
iii.   
  
There are many answers he can give for why he likes Lust—he's looks nice, and tastes just as nice—but mostly it's because of the way he spoils Gluttony, though it can also be taken as him stringing Gluttony along.   
  
"I want that one, Lust," Gluttony would say, pointing at a man in the crowd that has just the right amount of fat and muscle. And Lust would smile, would reach up to twirl a lock of Gluttony's long hair in his fingers, and reply, "you got it."  
  
Then he would go up to the aforementioned man, and later on, lead him somewhere secluded, where Gluttony can feast in peace and quiet as Lust looked on.  
  
Maybe Gluttony's mistaken, but Lust would almost look fond.

 

 

  
  
iv.   
  
Others might mistake Lust's longing to be something more into a desire to be human, but Gluttony knows better. Lust wants to be above humankind, to surpass them even more than he already has by virtue of being created. Gluttony supposes that just as Lust inspires want in others, he has wants of his own that aren't rational either.   
  
Like when he'd pull Gluttony in by the hair for kisses, or lead Gluttony's hands down his firm, warm body.   
  
"You want this too, don't you?"   
  
Gluttony thinks of the things he wants (food, approval) and wonders when, exactly, than Lust factored in beside those two things.   
  
"I'm hungry," would be his reply, to which Lust would laugh, and let him eat. 

 

 

  
  
v.   
  
When Lust dies, it's when Gluttony isn't there. Gluttony isn't as haughty to think it wouldn't have happened if he had been—maybe he would've died too, and it might be preferable to this—but beside the grief sits regret anyway, seeming to swallow him whole.   
  
"That colonel will pay," he says, amidst the snot and tears, as he feels a fourth kind of hunger unfurl from inside him. Lust would approve, he thinks. Lust has always wanted them, all of them, to aim higher than where they are.   
  
Because when Gluttony tastes it, he's certain no meat will compare to revenge.


	5. the one where they're in a band

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [this](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22341.html?thread=12691013#cmt12691013) prompt.

Atsushi doesn't know how long he's expected to handle this, because surely everyone else knows how he feels by now (everyone but the person who ought to know, anyway.) He's never been one for restraint—unless, apparently, it concerns the thing he wants most, in which case he can hold off for, without exaggeration, years and years. What else can he do, he reasons, when the thing in question seems oblivious to what must be the most obvious thing in the world?   
  
He's known Tatsuya ever since they were young, and he's harbored this—whatever this is—for almost as long, and in all that time Tatsuya has never showed any indication of returning the sentiment. So Atsushi bites it back (the confession on his tongue), tamps it down (the urge to touch when he can), reels it in (the wanting that rears its head when they're in their bunks and above him Tatsuya's coming undone.)  
  
And he'd been doing so well, really, he has, at the pretense even though he doesn't have a poker face close to Tatsuya's, but then the drinks, the oppressive heat of the bar, the way Tatsuya slumps against him as he helps him back to their tour bus to pass out. Atsushi had been content to burn on his own, to tuck Tatsuya into bed or to brush his hair back as he throws up, whichever came first, but then Tatsuya's climbing into his lap, straddling Atsushi instead of a stranger, and how was Atsushi supposed to deal with that?  
  
Tatsuya kisses him, tasting of limes and tequila, and squirms against his chest, and how— _how_  long was Atsushi supposed to hold out?  
  
So he doesn't anymore, giving into desire like he'd been dying to, wrapping his arms around Tatsuya and flipping their positions so that it's Tatsuya with his back to the couch and Atsushi with a knee in between his thighs that Tatsuya can grind up against. Any of their band mates could walk in, if they too decided they've tired of the bar, and Atsushi doesn't really care. He's far too occupied with what's underneath him, with pressing his mouth to the curve of Tatsuya's throat, with the vibration under his lips when Tatsuya moans. One of his hands wanders under Tatsuya's shirt, mapping out the warm skin under his palms, while the other undoes Tatsuya's belt, reaching under his underwear for something to make Tatsuya moan louder.   
  
And moan he does, filthy and musical like they're in a recording booth, except this time it's for Atsushi's ears only. He doesn't pay any attention to his own erection, focused on Tatsuya's face as Atsushi works him. There's the expression that Atsushi could only imagine in the past: there's the eyes shut tight, there's the cheeks flushed, there's the lips parted, somehow even better in real life.   
  
"Atsushi," says Tatsuya, and that—that's something Atsushi hadn't even dared to dream, amid the shudder and the sigh of him as he comes. Atsushi is quick to memorize every tremble of his shoulders, every breath he exhales, because he doesn't know when this will happen again, if it ever does.   
  
Tatsuya, sated, reaches for his face, pulling it down to kiss with Atsushi's hair falling like a curtain around them. Tatsuya's gaze is lidded, but lucid, when he murmurs, "won't you ask 'why now'?"  
  
Atsushi snorts. Stupidest question he's heard all year.   
  
"Doesn't matter," he says, between licks into Tatsuya's mouth, as if he can't get enough (and he really can't.) "Now's a good time as any."


	6. the one where himuro leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a remix of [this](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22341.html?thread=12779333#cmt12779333) fill.

If being too happy classified as a crime, Tatsuya would be guilty as charged. He smiles too easily, these days, genuine and freely given away; he laughs like he's trying to trap the sound into bottles, gifted to anyone who would listen. If being too happy was considered a sin, he'd have a spot reserved for him in several circles of hell, though that doesn't stop him from gorging on the feeling until he's almost sick with it. The sun shines brighter, the birds sing sweeter, and he drinks it all in without fear of excess or consequence.   
  
At least, not for a little while. Not until this happiness—excessive, euphoric, tooth-rotting—strikes him as wrong, and he's always been good at talking himself out of taking things he doesn't deserve.   
  
It starts simply, when he's on the couch with Atsushi: Atsushi's head in his lap, his fingers sifting through Atsushi's hair as his free hand holds up a book, their breaths the only sound in the room as they exhale in tandem, the silence occasionally broken by the crunch of a lollipop as Atsushi tires of a flavor and reaches for another. Contentment settles in Tatsuya's chest, but something else slithers around his ribs alongside it. It stutters his pulse. It asks,  _who told you you could have this?_  
  
He's long outgrown arguing with his own demons, or he thought he has, because he finds himself responding,  _Atsushi did._  
  
Foolish of him to hope it would end there, because the voice continues, snide and knowing,  _he doesn't know the worst of it._  Tatsuya knows the voice is lying, now, but he's paralyzed by it, forced to listen when it says,  _how long until you fuck this up?_  
  
 _I won't,_  he replies, a promise both to Atsushi and himself—but the voice laughs, dragging him through every memory that proves otherwise.  _This was when you let your pride get the best of you. This was when you were too angry to see things rationally. This was when you were too jealous to realize what you had._  
  
The voice doesn't give him time to process it; it goes on to demand,  _what makes you think you're allowed to be happy?_    
  
"Muro-chin?"   
  
Tatsuya blinks. His fingers have stilled in Atsushi's hair, and he's been staring at the same passage of text for several minutes. He pulls a smile to his lips, setting the book down. "What is it, Atsushi?"  
  
"You were spacing out. It looked like you were thinking too hard again." Atsushi frowns, lollipop and all. "Stop it."  
  
"If only it were that easy," says Tatsuya, before he can help himself. Atsushi opens his mouth as if to ask him to explain, but in the end he doesn't. Tatsuya's not certain he'd have the words for him if he did. He tugs his smile wider, rubber made to snap. "It's nothing. Want to order takeout?"  
  
"Mmkay."  
  
As Tatsuya brings the phone to his ear, his eyes land on a picture frame across the room, a photograph taken on one of their earlier sightseeing dates. Atsushi's smiling in it, which is rare in itself, but then Tatsuya is too, his grin without guilt or reservation.   
  
 _How long until you fuck this up?_  the voice had asked him earlier, and his defenses have lowered enough that he entertains the notion. He looks at their faces, impossibly happy, and is the one to ask himself now:  
  
how long?


	7. the one with the breakup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a remix of [this](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22341.html?thread=13630021#cmt13630021) fill.

The thing is, he never made plans to stay.   
  
He never has. Chalk it up to a childhood of constant moving, of parting with short-lived friends while promising to call or write and never doing so, of never remaining anywhere long enough to call it home. He'd never begrudged his parents for it, knowing they're giving him the best life they could; in exchange for how good he's got it, being uprooted on a steady basis really isn't so bad. But he has to admit, it's fostered a sense of impermanence in him that he can't shake off, no matter how much he tried.  
  
And he  _has_  tried. He'd embraced Taiga as his own, until Taiga upped and left him the way Tatsuya had done to so many others before then. The way he would soon do to Shuu, only a few years after that. It's no one's fault but fate and circumstance, how life seemed to be shuffling them around like a deck of cards, but it's hard not to feel bitter over the hand he'd been dealt.   
  
His family moves to Japan again, and he resolves it within himself: from then on, he'll always be the first to leave.   
  
Atsushi never factored into it, any of it. Tatsuya had never meant to let Atsushi tail after him—Atsushi would never admit it in those terms, but there's few other words for it—until they became inseparable, one never see without the other. He never meant for the lingering touches to turn into kisses, for the kisses to turn into other things; never meant for the warmth he felt in his chest at the sight of Atsushi to turn into this burning fire, similar to what consumes them when they're on court.   
  
It's not good for him. And it's not good for Atsushi either, to be so close to someone who's already made up his mind about leaving him behind.   
  
There were plenty of chances for Tatsuya to have said it sooner. Like the day he relinquished his spot as captain, his Yosen jersey taken off for the last time. Or the the day acceptance letters came from Tokyo universities—whose distance from Akita can be measured by a couple hours and several thousand yen by train—quickly tucked under the books on his desk when Atsushi came around to his dorm room. Or even the night before graduation, just so he wouldn't have caught Atsushi off-guard.  
  
Atsushi doesn't get angry, doesn't cry, doesn't make a scene. All he does is nod in response to Tatsuya's horribly gentle, "you understand why we have to do this, don't you?" and if he hadn't just ended what they had moments earlier, it would've been Tatsuya's job to make certain he's okay.   
  
It's not anymore. He reaches for Atsushi's hand out of habit, catching himself too late; he pats Atsushi's arm instead, the gesture so empty and inadequate that he immediately draws his hand back.   
  
"You'll be fine. Give everyone hell next year, won't you? Make us proud."  _Us_ , he emphasizes. Not  _me._  
  
"Don't tell me what to do," says Atsushi, softly, and Tatsuya smiles an apology in place of kissing him goodbye. When he walks away, he doesn't look back.   
  
He never made plans to stay.


End file.
